


Not a Stark - Theon Greyjoy Oneshot

by neonroadkill



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: One Shot, Pre-A Game of Thrones, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 10:44:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7931635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonroadkill/pseuds/neonroadkill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theon doesn't belong; Neither does Jon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Stark - Theon Greyjoy Oneshot

"He's my father, not yours. _Don't you get it?_ You don't belong here. At least my father wants me- what did yours do, send you away?" He laughed, "He must have been so fucking embarrassed."

The words hung in the air. Theon felt his breathing, the atmosphere freezing over with the pain of what Jon had just said. He felt tears begin to gloss over his eyes, but blinked them away, advancing on Jon.

"Wait-" Jon said, "I didn't-"

Theon didn't slow. He drew his practice sword from its scabbard, the dull edge gleaming in the afternoon light.

"I didn't mean it, I didn't-" Jon was backing away now, hesitant to draw his sword, but Theon knew that he did mean it, he meant _every single word_.

Theon was on Jon before he could even try to defend himself, and he hit him, hard against the side with the flat of his blade. The strike stung Jon, and he drew his blade, ready to engage in combat. There was no point. In two quick strokes, Theon hacked at Jon's wrist, feeling a satisfying crunch as it bent just a little too far. His breathing was heavy now, and he advanced further on his opponent.

In an eerily calm voice, Theon said, "At least I'm not a bastard."

Jon looked at him, piercing eyes filled with bitterness, and tried to rise, but Theon shoved him back down against the wall. With a well aimed fist, he struck Jon's face, and blood began to trickle from his nose. Jon's hands frantically scrabbled for a weapon, for a stone, something to protect him, but it was no use. The blows became harder and faster, and soon Theon was kicking him, relishing the feeling that came with the contact of a boot against exposed ribs.

Jon's breathing grew labored, and he tried to raise a hand to shield himself but to no avail.

The world grew fuzzy to Theon, and he became vaguely aware of his own voice, his own breathing, "Your mother was probably a whore, Snow, she was a fucking slut. She was a slut, she was a slut, she was a _slut_. Tears were running down Theon's face as he repeated the sentence, hitting him over and over again. Jon was limp at this point, and bleeding everywhere, his right eye swollen shut and his lip split. His wrist was still bent at an awkward angle and his breathing was ragged and uneven.

With a final, harsh blow to Jon's head, Theon leaned in close and pulled the other boy's limp body close by his blood soaked hair.

"Don't you ever say that to me again, Snow." He said hoarsely, licking his lips.

He wasn't aware of dropping his practice sword, but there it was, sitting in the snow. He slid it back into its sheath and continued to the mess hall for dinner.


End file.
